Disclaimer: I do not own Shivaree's song Goodnight Moon.

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Chapter Six: What If The Lights Go Out

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"There's a nail in the door

And there's glass on the lawn

Tacks on the floor

And the TV is on

I always sleep with my guns when you're gone

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"There's a blade by the bed

And a phone in my hand

A dog on the floor

And some cash on the night stand

When I'm all alone the dreaming stops

And I just can't 'stand

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"What should I do?

I'm just a little baby

What if the lights go out and maybe

And then the wind just starts to moan

Outside the door, he followed me home . . ."

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Two days passed quietly. Angela's knees healed, and Zach's puncture marks were shrinking.

No fingerprints were found on any of the notes, which were all stored in their own separate sealed evidence bags. No fingerprints or other trace evidence were found on Brennan's roses or the box in which Zach found the spider. All they had were nasty acts against them, little reminders of the events other than their memories, and warnings to "expect more".

The notes were all vague, except for Zach's, which was an obvious threat.

Pranked.

Fallen Angel.

Queen of Death.

You should have seen your face! We have only just begun.

Almost as if the pranksters were getting tired of their own cryptic game. It was as if they wanted to evoke fear, and have the team know someone was not only watching them, but laughing at their misery.

So far, no leads as to the identity of the prankster. There was a list at least twelve hours long as to how many enemies the team, or at least Brennan and Booth, likely had, from criminals they put behind bars, to their friends on the outside or families or others whose lives were ruined in the pursuit of justice. The wolf spider mailed to Zach had really upped the game plan, and Booth knew that this was about more than simply scaring a couple scientists. Brennan wasn't scared; she'd taken the roses with mild distaste, though Booth knew she was angry about what had happened to Angela and Zach. They'd discussed this over coffee and pie in the diner. She was as annoyed as Cam about Cam's car, but she still had no fear.

When Booth pressed her, Brennan stated that right now, having undue fear or worry was irrational.

"So you would rather wait until something really scary happens to—"

"—Feel fear?" Brennan finished, with a question bending up her eyebrows. She took a long sip of her coffee.

Booth nodded.

"Well, yes, I guess," she answered, then paused. "Wouldn't you, Booth?"

"What? Wait?"

"Yes. I mean, don't you have to do that as a special agent anyway?" Now he was looking at her with questions. "Isn't it part of your job to be calm and rational when everyone else is falling apart around you? Like someone who may not have had your same training?" Booth's face split into a grin and he laughed aloud. "What? What did I say?"

The laugh was still in his warm brown eyes when he spoke, "Well, Bones, when you're with me you're always calm and rational."

She blinked, not understanding. "Yes. I am. So?"

He laughed again. Brennan scrunched her face so she looked a little angry. "Nah, Bones, don't be mad. I'm just saying, you're there when I'm chasing thugs with guns, and you aren't even scared then. So I just don't know why—"

"Hey!" Brennan objected, seeing where Booth's train of thought was leading. "Don't even imply that. I care about my friends."

Booth dropped the smile from his lips, but not his eyes. "No, I know you do."

"Why?" she asked, going back to one his earlier questions. "Are you ever scared chasing thugs with guns?"

Booth smiled again. "Are you?" he teased.

"Well, I do get an adrenaline rush, if that's what you mean," she replied seriously. She knitted her brows together. "Do you?"

Booth laughed aloud again. "Yes, Bones, I do."

Brennan sighed. "Those letters we got following the 'pranks' just don't seem to have any unifying aspect."

Booth nodded. "Cam gets one that says 'pranked' after she was obviously pranked. Angela's one says "fallen angel" after she slips on motor oil that was obviously not there accidentally."

"And then I get those syrupy roses and a weird note that says, 'queen of death'. I don't understand if they are— these people we don't know but may know— if they are saying if that's my occupation . . . or if I am some harbinger of death." She mulled it over some more, pressing her lips together and pushing them side to side, almost if she were chewing something. Tempe rose her eyes to Booth's. "Do you think they could be saying that whatever happens to my friends will be my fault?"

Booth's immediate reaction was to shake his head, and tell her no. But he did wonder, in the back of his mind, if that's what these pranksters thought. If these were enemies of hers that she had made, or that the two of them had made together, that were coming at her through her friends. So that her resolve of no fear would be erased completely. He set his jaw, determined not to let them worm their way that far into her psyche.

* * *

Jack Hodgins was running late for his date with Angela. She had called him halfway to the restaurant, Genja's, a swanky Italian place not too far from the diner where everyone hung out. "Sweetie, remember? It was your idea," she reminded him. "I wanted to stay in, get Chinese take-out and cuddle. Uh, uh, don't you dare cancel. I'm all dressed and almost there. I'm going to go in, get a table." She laughed. "Oh, you want to know what I'm wearing, do you? So you can recognize me? Less talk, more action, babe. I'm pulling into the parking lot now."

Hodgins squealed into a parking spot, yanking his keys out of the ignition. Running a hand through his semi-wet curly hair, he started towards the front doors. He stopped, and cursed. Had he grabbed his wallet out of his other pants pocket? Hodgins hesitated. Angela would kill him if he had to drive back to his apartment for something he should have. He patted down his pockets, and felt his wallet in a back pocket. Phew, he thought. Dodged a bullet there.

Angela looked over her menu for the second time, taking another small sip of her vodka cranberry. She resisted checking her watch again; partly she enjoyed looking at it because it had been a gift from Jack, a gold petite band with tiny golden roses and miniature pearls encircling the watch face. But looking at it also made her a little peeved that her boyfriend almost forgot their date. She had taken a table near a window, hoping to catch him when he was walking in so she could signal their waiter and get on with their date.

Jack, getting there so late, had to park in the back. The parking lot was just across the street from Genja's. The only other parking was on-street, and those spots where hardly ever free. He was just crossing the last row of cars and had entered the street after checking it was clear when a pair of brights turned on, right in his face. He raised his hands to eyes, momentarily blinded. Where was he in the road? Right in the middle? He edged back towards to the last row of cars. He hadn't paid any mind to the purr of the engine before; the lights swung and he could hear the car getting closer. Hodgins couldn't see a thing; he felt blindly behind him for the solidness of a grill or a hood, but his hands came up empty.

Tires squealed. An engine revved, then roared. The vehicle getting closer, closer, very fast. How would they see him, with his arms over his face, standing there with a target practically painted on his forehead? Hodgins screamed, or tried to; he had no idea if his voice made it out of his throat over the roar of the engine. He was paralyzed, waves of fear running down his legs and up his arms. He was going to be crushed, road kill under merciless wheels, splat. Just like that.

Hodgins could feel the heat of the engine right in his face. All sounds around him were harsh, shrill. His heart leapt into his mouth, then he was in the air, jumping back into blank space. The vehicle squealed by, the smell of burning rubber washing over him like nausea. He was shaking all over, his teeth knocking together as if he were freezing. He brought his hands up to his head, then ran his hands down his arms, then his legs. He was whole, completely intact. He sat up, realizing he had landed on something solid; the hood of a tiny red mini-Coup. Hodgins looked himself over and over again. He was not bloodied, was not even scratched or banged up, let alone just a gloopy smear puddling in the road. His heart was thudding in his throat a million miles a minute, his brain jiggling like Jell-O. He tried his voice; he could see his breath, white in the dark night.

The mystery car was gone. Tire marks burned into the pavement. The car that held nearly killed him. The word deadened him for a second, and then he heard his voice yelling. "Help! Help! HELP!" His voice continued until there was a crowd around him; then Angela was at his side, touching him, worrying over him, making him feel like he was still attached to his skin. Her face was a pale moon over him; he continued to tremble violently.

"What happened? What's going on?" "I don't know." "Did you see what happened?" "Did you?" "Did you?" These were unfamiliar voices; they must be patrons who had come out to understand the commotion. "Was there an accident?" "Is anybody hurt?"

"Jack, are you hurt?" Angela was saying. Then shaking him. "Are you hurt?"

His blue eyes were about to pop. He swung them to Angela, whose expression he figured was mirroring his own. "They—they tried to kill me," he said. His voice was too loud. Or was it too soft?

"What? What happened?" She was squeezing his arm so tightly it hurt. He was strangely relived that that was the only pain he was feeling.

"They tried to run me down. They were— waiting for me."

"What?" Angela cried again. "Did you see anyone?"

Jack shook his head; it was a jarring effect. "It was too dark."

Two patrol cars shot up, with their bright red and blue lights spinning fast. Jack watched uniformed police officers climbing out of their cars. "Call Brennan," he told her suddenly. She stared at him and nodded. Her hand went in her purse, her cell phone was to her ear, and then AngelaÕs hand was back in Jack's holding him tight.

* * *

Angela had no idea how Brennan and Booth arrived on the scene so fast. It was as if they flew. In reality, Brennan had ordered Booth to floor it, and he didn't need to be told twice. The whole way there, Brennan's knuckles were white from holding onto the door handle, her teeth gritted so tightly that by the time they were in the parking lot, her jaw ached.

She had been at her lab with Booth, talking about some older cases and trying to figure out if any of those criminals or their loved ones would take up such a vendetta.

By the time they arrived, police officers had helped Jack down from the hood of the car that had saved his life, and walked him over to a bench outside of Genja's. Angela never left his side. The officers were questioning him a third time when Brennan and Booth ran up. Booth identified himself as FBI and quickly explained to quizzical looks from the officers that he was there to investigate noxious acts that had been occurring against the forensic scientists at the Jeffersonian. This was more or less the truth, and it served well for now.

After giving Hodgins a quick once-over, and seeing that he looked unharmed, at least physically, he left Brennan with Angela and went over to talk to one of the officers.

"Is Dr. Hodgins all right?" he asked a cop named Benny, who had a thick frame and crew cut blond hair. "Did he say what happened?"

Benny nodded. "He's shaking real bad, but he's okay. The car missed him by inches."

His partner, an African-American woman with small features but an authoritative look, added, "Dr. Hodgins says he thinks the car was waiting for him to walk into the road."

A chill ran up Booth's spine. "He said what?"

"That's what he said," Benny confirmed. "Said it was heading straight for him. He's lucky he has good reflexes; his jumping onto that car hood is likely the only reason he isn't dead." Benny gestured towards the hood of the red mini-Coup, where its owner, a balding older gentleman, seemed to be surveying for any damage. The man glanced over at Hodgins for a long moment, back to his car, and sighed softly. He patted the car as if it were a faithful dog.

"Holy shit," Booth cursed, barely under his breath. The female cop looked at him with a serious frown that read, "Honey, that's what I said." "So this is looking like an attempted murder?" Booth already knew it was, down to this bones, but wanted their opinions.

Benny and his partner, Craft, nodded. "I think it's definitely more than just an attempted hit and run, that's for certain," Craft said. "It's really too bad he didn't get a good look at the driver or the make and model. 'Cept he's shitting lucky to be alive." Booth nodded tightly, swinging his glance toward the trio at the bench.

"Are you all right?" Brennan was asking for about the fifth time. Her eyes went to Hodgins, then Angela, then back to Hodgins.

"I—I guess," Hodgins replied. "Scared—scared out of my mind though." Brennan nodded vigorously. Jack shook his head slowly, becoming suddenly aware of how dry his mouth was. "I don't remember jumping out of the way. I can't believe someone would try to run me over."

"It was the adrenaline," Brennan said rationally, before she realized she didn't need to explain this Hodgins. Angela touched her arm gently, and Brennan gave her a knowing, sympathetic look. She looked over Jack again. He had stopped trembling, and his breathing and heart rate were slowing to normal. She noticed something. "Dr. Hodgins, what's that in your hand?"

"Huh?" Jack asked, and then became aware that he was clutching something in his right hand; that its pointed and rounded edges were poking at his palm. He unclenched his fist, and the three peered down at what he was holding. It was a crumpled piece of paper. They stared at for a few moments as if it were a body part or a bloody piece of skull fragment. Gently, Brennan took it from his palm with two fingers, and pulled the paper open. Her eyes widened as she realized the note bore the same ransom style letters as the other notes that had been received; the only difference was that each individual magazine letter had tiny creases from being balled up for such a long time.

Booth approached, his face grim. "What's that?" he asked, peering over Brennan's shoulder.

"It's another note from the prankster," Brennan replied quietly. Jack was staring up at it as if she were holding fire. Booth read it over her shoulder; his face split into an angry scowl.

"What does it say?" Jack burst out suddenly, his voice a little hoarse. Brennan handed it over to Angela, who read it slowly, and then crumpled it halfway without thinking. Hodgins took it from her hands, uncrumpling it so fast he tore it a little at a corner.

Scared you to death?

His hands shook again, though this time with anger, as he read and reread the note.

"How did you get that?" Brennan asked Hodgins, trying to make him focus before he yelled and tore up the letter, which he looked on the verge of doing. When he loosened his grip on the paper, Booth snatched it from his fingers. "I don't— I don't know. Maybe it was thrown from the window when the car drove past. That car that almost hit me." Hodgins slammed his fist on the bench, making Angela jump and Brennan flinch.

Brennan looked Booth in the eyes. This was very serious. Were the pranksters just trying to scare Hodgins . . . or were they trying to kill him? She gave Booth a wide-eyed stare that told him now was as good a time as any to show her hand, ante-up to the inevitable fear.

"Hodgins, the cops tell me you're resisting getting checked out by EMTs. Why don't you let us take you to the hospital?" Booth eased.

"No," Jack snapped.

"We can leave the scene now?" Brennan asked.

"They already asked him all the necessary questions," Booth confirmed. "They're going through everyone else, looking for a witness. Angela?" Booth asked with raised eyebrows.

She shook her head. "I wish I could say I saw something. I didn't. I heard plenty, though." She couldn't suppress her shudder. She squeezed Jack's hand harder, and felt tears come. If something had happened to him, if he'd been hurt . . . tears welled up in her mouth, her face red and tight.

Jack ran a hand over his face. One of them, maybe both, was soaked with sweat. When Booth started to repeat his earlier proposition, he snapped again, "I am NOT going to the hospital! These wannabe psycho killers already sent two of us there. I'm not going to be the third." He crossed his arms definitely, the anger on his face effectively replacing all of the terror that had been there less than five minutes before.

The air was tense until Brennan broke in gently. "Well, can we go back to the lab then? Maybe we can talk in private." She shrugged at the crowd of onlookers hovering about twenty feet from them, though some were a bit closer. Booth nodded. "Okay, let me just make sure we're cleared for take off." He turned on his heel before Brennan had the chance to correct his phraseology.

She looked at Angela, then Jack. The anger had fled and had been replaced by fright. Jack's eyes were opened too wide. She despised seeing her friends like this, all worked up like nothing could ever bring them back down to be their old selves. Brennan felt an old stab of fear; when the Gravedigger had taken her and Hodgins and buried them alive in her car. The fear of airlessness, of pure panic and not being able to finish one clear thought other than, Oh, my god, I'm going to die here like this. Brennan reached out and squeezed Jack's other hand hard.